


I Can't Feel It Under My Skin

by humancorn



Series: hannah's vent fics [2]
Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Angst, Angst without a happy ending, Compulsions, Fai is Sad, I'm Sorry, Kurogane tries to be helpful, Maybe - Freeform, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, They're in Infinity in the second chapter so the Sakura that confronts Fai is Post-Acid Tokyo, To Be Continued, graphic depictions of self-harm, i did a horrible job explaining compulsive cleaning, i may add a comfort chapter, kind of:, no comfort, un-reread actually, unbeta-d, vent fic, ventfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-09-16 02:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9268841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humancorn/pseuds/humancorn
Summary: Fai D. Flourite & Breakdowns





	1. Fai D. Flourite & Breakdowns

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This fic is a personal representation of how the author experiences breakdowns and does, in no way, represent everyone who experiences breakdowns.

Fai twisted around in his bed and all he could think and feel was _itchy;_ a terrible sensation that happened once in a while that just made him so restless, he could feel the pulling tension in his muscles, aching and _wanting_ to move and to _scratch_. If he were awake and if Fai bothered to tell him about it, Fai would probably get a lecture from Syaoran about what exactly this feeling meant in technical terms and how he could work to solve it in the long run. But that would take an amount of effort and trust that he just wasn’t ready to give, and he doubted that the time would ever come when he would feel comfortable doing so. He tries to inch himself toward it, toward revealing more, trusting more, and yet it just never comes to fruition. Some part of him feels the ache in his chest every time he’s just _itching_ to tell them something that relates to what they’re talking about, but he realizes that the backstory would be too complicated to explain; it would reveal _too_ much; it would give a little more than of himself over than it should and he can’t have _that_ , oh _Gods_ , he can’t hurt _them_ , not _now_. So his stories sit untold and they ache in his chest but he learns to deal with the throbbing of old times by watching new ones unfold. His heart grows heavier, as does the air in his lungs, with each breath he takes in a new world.

He laughs, though his lungs take in the air like molasses moving through lead, and he smiles, though his skin feels stiff and unforgiving. And he learns to cope; picking and choosing bits of philosophy and words of wisdom from each of the worlds they visit:  he uses it as fuel to irritate Kurogane, “A happy wife equals a happy life, Kuro-pon!” He laughs, poking at Kurogane’s cheek, and sometimes he takes it to heart. Small phrases like, “Fake it until you make it”, which he felt was a little too real for him in all intents and purposes, or stupid stuff like “I’m too (insert verb) for this shit”, which were just relaxing to think about the fact that people from all different worlds use these phrases earnestly and feel (even just somewhat) what he does. He laughs sometimes and it feels real, like he’s actually in his body, sitting next to these kids and he’s _happy_. That scares him more than he’d like to think about.

Complacency is the act of feeling a quiet security, often while unaware of some potential danger, and Fai is aware of just how immobilizing it can be. Positive Illusions were never something he’d had the luxury of having, so it was foreign to hear Kurogane say things like, “That will never happen to _us_ ”. Fai found himself, through time, believing that. They’ll never be separated, like in the tales they heard on many a world of time travelers and arrogance; they’ll never be injured, or captured, or beaten, they were too powerful and smart and _special_. Because they were themselves and they would not be so stupid as to do things others had tried and failed before. But positive illusions were just that—illusions, or more aptly, _delusions_. And when they come crashing down, you fall hard and fast.

It was long past midnight, and Fai was still treating Kurogane’s wounds. Syaoran was stabilized and fast asleep in the next room, Sakura by his side. Part of him wished they were here, with them in the same room. Maybe then it would be a bit easier to be here. The kids always lightened the room, in his opinion. They made him feel...alive and needed and _wanted_. But here, in the dark, holding Kurogane’s hand in his and watching small points of blood well up through the gauze on the taller man’s chest and shoulders and arms, it was…surreal. He could remember that smell, so strong and vivid, and it brought back things he wished he couldn’t remember right now, when he was supposed to be useful and caring. _It’s just like before. Person after person; body after body; you are the cause of carnage. You can’t be anything but an object of destruction._

_It’s been so long since I’ve been alone at night_ , he thought. Being busy, being occupied…small comforts he allowed. Scrubbing the floor or dishes or countertops until his hands were worn raw, the skin stretched thin over his knuckles on the verge of cracking, opening up and bleeding. It was good. It was nice. It _helped_. All he could think of was just how fucking awful, how incapable, how _diluted_ he was and all of his muscles were screaming: _yes! yes! hit something, break something, hit **yourself**! break **yourself**! You **need** to punch yourself; you **need** to dig your nails into your neck until you bleed and drag them back and forth until everyone can see just how fucking **broken** you are. You couldn’t even protect yourself, let alone the kids, or…Kurogane. How fucking useless can you be?_ He can feel his throat swell and begin to ache, even though he hasn’t said anything in hours. He feels like screaming, but even if he had the liberty he knows he wouldn’t be able to make a sound.

His legs wobble when he tries to stand, but he manages to make his way to the small bathroom anyway. And as he shuts the door, his nails sink into the flesh of his palm, holding himself back from doing any real damage until he can’t take it anymore and everything washes over him like a wave of _relief_ but…but not quite. He sits there. Staring. His eyes red, his cheeks wet and puffy as he feels the skin on the side of his neck wearing away under each scratch of his nails. He can feel it, he knows it’s happening. But why can’t it hurt? And suddenly that’s not enough; it’s not enough’ it will never be enough because gods, he fucking deserves to _die_. Flashes of blood and gore play out before his eyes and he lands on one, fabricated image that drives such a strong compulsion to stab himself directly in the neck with the sharpest object he can find that it almost scares him. But an almost is still an almost, and so he sits, numb, and still dully scratching at his neck with his lips parted, his heart racing, and his head pounding.

Everything is a bit foggy now, but he’s calmer. And just as it has every time before, it feels like he exists half-way out of his body. He’s not in control. Just a shell with a disconnect between his brain and body parts. He sits there for what seems like another hour before standing and looking into the mirror. It would be so _easy_ to just snap and be _home, but…no. It’s not that easy. It never was._ His fingers still on his neck as he catches a glimpse of the damage he’s done out of the corner of his eye. Long, dewy lines of red pool up from the surrounding, irritated pink skin. The contrast between that and his natural ashen skin tone makes his stomach tie into knots.

Thirty minutes later, he’s already dabbed up the blood, laid a makeshift bandage upon the wound, gotten dressed (a shirt with a collar that climbs his neck and stops just below the tilt of his chin), collected all of the wasted gauze in Kurogane’s room, and made his way to the common living space downstairs. The kitchen was clean, and he knew that. But there seemed to be a thin (very thin) sheen of dust on _all_ of the surfaces. Fai glanced at the clock on the wall, his eyes aching from what he knew was a combination of lack of sleep and crying. 3:25am.

He started out with the kitchen counters, scrubbing them down and making sure to cleanse every nook and cranny possible before moving on to anything else. Next, the fridge, and then the floors. Being productive in the wake of such wasted time had become such a habit that Fai, particularly when they had decent dwellings, didn’t sleep until they travelled to the next world. Sometimes he wondered if he even slept at all. As he finished, he could hear a rustle from the rooms upstairs. Five minutes later, (some sort of) meat was sizzling away in a pan and eggs were being cracked into a cup for Fai’s specialty omelets.

Kurogane was the first to make his way down to the dining area. Fai smiled at him before handing him a pre-made plate of food and shooing him off to the table. The taller man grunted and walked away.

“I heard you crying last night.” He called from the table. Fai froze; his heart beat slowed to what seemed like a stop before he felt a hand on his shoulder. “You can talk about it, if you want. You know I won’t care.”

“Talk about what?” He could feel himself coming apart at the seams; he pulled and pushed everything back into place and turned to face _him_. He, who so many times has brought him to his knees, physically and emotionally.  

“About whatever you want. The kids talk to you about things, right? About how they’re feeling and how their days went.” And as Kurogane spoke, Fai could see the rising heat on his cheeks. _Pathetic, that it made his stomach flit and flutter like he was a small boy with a summer crush_.

“I’m fine; stop looking so serious, Kuro-rin!” His smile widened, splitting and cracking and tearing.

“You’ve been awake for 75 hours. I heard you crying in the bathroom. Your hands and your neck are wrapped in a lot of bandages,” Kurogane glared at him when he started to open his mouth to protest, “And I know damn well that neither of those things were injured in the fight yesterday.”

Fai just looked up at him, and started chuckling, “Oh, but Kurgie, they were injured on the fight yesterday. You must be losing your touch.” And with that, he made a quick escape up the stairs to wake the kids.  


	2. who the fuck said you could touch me anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> suicide attempts because i need to write about what's going on with me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suicide and Self-Harm and ODing trigger warning

****

“Mage.” Kurogane’s voice is there, he can hear it. But Fai doesn’t look up; he doesn’t even move. He just sits there, as his companion roughly grabs his hands. He drops the pill bottle, and it clatters on the floor. Clear orange plastic bouncing and babbling on a hard pine floor. But there’s no pills scattering all around, no little pink discs making tiny pitter-patter noises all over, resounding over and over and over and over. He smiles as Kurogane, big and dope-y, and cries. This won’t kill him, he knows it can’t. He thought it would be worth a shot. Kurogane is holding him, tight in his arms, and Fai can feel him lift him up, and set him on something soft before his vision goes. Everything is cloudy around him, but he can hear someone shouting. He can hear the loud squeak of the door opening into the room. He can hear sobbing. He can feel tears.

Fai had always loved the cliché of someone waking up in a hospital bed, only to find their loved one asleep, sitting in a chair, and waiting for them to wake up. It meant someone cared enough to spend hours, days, weeks, months – waiting. Wasting time, just watching as they slept. That was surely devotion. That was surely _love_. When Fai wakes up in bed, in a pool of his own sweat, with Kurogane’s hand over his and his head next to Fai’s torso, Fai wishes he could be anywhere but here. He’s honestly disappointed, angry even. He was still here. Be it by his own chemistry or the work of others, he was still here and he wishes he wasn’t. Having someone to blame, though. That made it easier. He chooses to blame Kurogane. The damn fool had kept him alive so far, and at this point Fai was sure it was through sheer stubbornness alone. He doesn’t care. Hating Kurogane will make it easier in the long run. Hating Kurogane will take away half of the nightmares. Hating Kurogane will take away the sting at the back of his throat, the throbbing in his hands, the tears at the back of his eyes. Hating Kurogane will bring Fai back. Hating Kurogane will make him Yuui again.

The collar around his throat has been removed, and Fai could feel the IV in his arm, pumping life into his veins and he wanted so badly to **_RIP. IT OUT._** His hands tense and his jaw clenches. But he just sits there. Sits there until Kurogane comes to, realizes Fai’s breathing is too deep for him to still be asleep, and tightens his hand over Fai’s before calling for a nurse. They check his vitals, and everything seems to check out. They have him talk to a counselor. He lies to the counselor. He tells the woman, with pin-straight black hair and soft, dewy eyes that he accidentally took the medicine. He tells her he’s foreign, that he misread the bottle. She doesn’t believe him, but she does nothing. She can’t. Fai knows.

Part of him knows that if he were to have been born into a different life, he and Kurogane might have well been soulmates. He can feel it pulling at his bones, and he can see it in the way Kurogane looks at him, the way he moves around him. There was a short period of time where Fai would blush whenever Kurogane helped him with anything. It was past now, and he could choke it down, past his throat, into the bottom of his stomach where it lay there and rot. On worlds where there had been soul marks, back in the day, when both of the clones were with them, Sakura had a soulmark for Syaoran and Syaoran had a soulmark for Sakura. Once, when the soulmarks had been ‘your partner’s signature’, Kurogane’s had been in plain sight, on his forearm. It was Fai’s signature. Old Valerian, with a Celesian title. His breath had caught in his throat, and he vehemently hid the glowing red marking on the inner side of his upper arm. _Kurogane._ He wished he knew how to forget.

Kurogane watches him closely as he dresses himself in his robes, readying to leave the hospital. It sends chills down Fai’s spine, and he’s ready in record time. When they arrive back at the hotel, he can tell that neither Sakura, nor Kurogane has explained to the new Syaoran what happened. The boy is concerned, but he does not seem to grasp the full gravity of the situation. He thinks Fai is injured. And Fai supposes that he is, when he thinks about it. Part of him wants to snap at him, to scream and yell and throw a fit because the boy was not the Syaoran he’d come to know. He was not the boy he’d held when he was drained and crying; he was not the boy who’d laughed with him and told him his cooking was the best he’d ever had. He was not Fai’s son. He does not yell at Syaoran, but he wants to.

Sakura’s hand guides him into his room, under the guise of helping him to his bed to get some rest. She holds Fai’s head in her lap as he stares off into the distance, and tells her everything he knows of Kurogane, because it’s all he can think of to talk about. She sits, and listens, and runs her fingers through his hair. When she leaves, she kisses him on the forehead and gives him a half-hearted smile.

“I hope you find it in your heart to stay with us for at least a little longer, Fai-san.”

And he stays, for her, but he doesn’t have to like it. Kurogane makes him drink from his wrist, up close and personal, every chance he catches Fai alone. When he was human, hunger pangs had reminded him of the time he was in the tower. They were a constant reminder of what he was here to do. They were penance. He did not deserve to eat. Why should someone as vile as him be wasting food by feeding himself? Other people would need it. Syaoran was a growing boy. He di0d not need it. Since turning, however, the pangs of hunger were quite different, and they did not come quite as often. His hands cover his throat when he is thirsty, but his stomach does not growl. His chest does not ache if he leaves the thirst alone for too long. Kurogane takes his control, he takes the last thing Fai has left. Though he never really had control in the first place, did he? Where he was, who he talked to, what he ate, and where he slept, were all predetermined by other people.

The night after, Kurogane comes into his room, and sees the blood-scarlet lines running vertically down his arm. Lifeblood dripping, dripping, dripping. Fading, fading, fading. Kurogane lays him down, slits his own wrist and holds it above Fai’s slack-jawed mouth. And he waits. Waits until Fai wakes up shivering in the middle of the night and curls around him, and Fai nearly flinches away before settling down into the embrace. Kurogane is strong, and he is unyielding. His arms are a cage, and Fai, defiant as he is, wants to break free. He doesn’t.


End file.
